


Anheuser-Busch Expects A Thank-You Card

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But from all appearances, aside from the biggest hangover ever known to mankind, he appears to have made it through Jim’s bachelor party virtually unscathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anheuser-Busch Expects A Thank-You Card

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's sexy_right community for the "Put A Ring On It" challenge, in celebration of NYC's gay marriage rights.

Matt didn’t want to attend Jim’s bachelor party.

In fact, it really wasn’t exaggerating – much – to say that he would rather have his back teeth removed with a set of barbeque tongs than spend the evening with a bunch of loud, obnoxious, _straight_ frat boys. And though Jim had turned out to be a _wants to be a human rights lawyer, comes from a good family, volunteers at the local AIDS hospice_ kind of guy, John still couldn’t get past their first meeting two summers ago. To hear John tell it, pulling Jim bodily out of the car by the scruff of the neck that night at Rutgers is all that saved Lucy from complete and total despoiling of the body and soul. John usually forgets that Lucy has a mean right hook and isn’t afraid to use it.

Matt and John ran through various scenarios to get out of it. Okay, mostly Matt. He came up with some great ideas, too, but John had a rather unhealthy attachment to his internal organs so an emergency appendectomy was vetoed. And he wouldn’t spring for plane tickets to the Cayman Islands.

So they went. They promised each other that they’d make an appearance, drink a toast to the groom-to-be, lose fifty bucks at the card table, and then make an early exit.

As it turned out, frat boys have access to _lots_ of beer.

* * *

When Matt wakes up in the morning, there’s a tiny man with a jackhammer in his skull, a thick coating of Elmer’s Glue on his tongue, and a rumbling growling snarling sound ratcheting around in his head.

He takes a breath, and when his brain doesn’t crack apart and start leaking out his ears, he cautiously opens one eye and lifts his head fractionally off the pillow, peers down the length of his body. Still fully clothed and lying on the bed. His own bed, which is a big plus. All limbs attached and – he flexes the fingers of his right hand experimentally – yes, fully functional.

He’ll have to check the mirror later to make sure that no unfortunate tattoo or body piercing decisions were made while under the haze of Budweiser’s siren call. But from all appearances, aside from the biggest hangover ever known to mankind, he appears to have made it through Jim’s bachelor party virtually unscathed.

Still moving slowly, he tips his head carefully to one side. John, at least, managed to get most of his clothes off before tumbling in the general direction of the bed, even if he didn’t actually make it under the covers, either. Spread-eagled on his stomach, in boxers and a single sock, John is still dead to the world. Mouth open. And snoring. Loudly.

Which really? Ow.

It takes more concentration than it should to make his limbs move, but Matt finally manages to flop his left arm onto John’s back. Nothing. He slaps a little harder, and this time John snorts and sniffs and then cracks open a single eye of his own.

“Oh shit,” John moans.

“Right?” Matt says.

For a moment they regard each other like a couple of drunken pirates – okay, hungover pirates – before John opens his other eye, squints and grunts and slides over onto his side. He gives his own body a quick once-over, then lifts a brow. “I knew,” he says slowly, “that going to that party was a very bad idea.”

“At least this time you weren’t suspended,” Matt points out. “Or, like, throwing bombs off subway cars.”

Because that story makes the rounds at every McClane family gathering – okay, all two of them – with Holly particularly liking to point out how John left her on hold to go chase a bad guy. John always counters with the fact that never knowing when he’s going to be called upon to chase bad guys while suffering from a horrible fucking hangover was as good a reason as any to stop drinking so much.

Which he did. Until last night.

“At least this time,” John says pointedly, “no one ended up half naked in a fountain.”

“Okay, whoa, not fair,” Matt protests. “First, I didn’t know those drinks were doubles, it was totally Lucy’s fault! And second, I was not half naked, I still had my jeans on—“

“ _Half_ on.”

Matt snorts, flails out at John’s chest with a half-hearted punch that John easily blocks with his arm. “No, I—“

“Jesus Christ, kid,” John hisses out. He glares down at his arm, then holds it up so that Matt can see the long thin scratch on the skin. “You carrying shivs to bed now?”

“What? No!” Matt says. He brings his hand up closer to his face, squints in the dim light. “Okay, so I have a beer tab on my finger. That’s… weird,” he says. He frowns over at John. “Why do I have a beer tab on my finger?”

When John’s eyes widen, Matt remembers everything.

* * *

It takes Lucy at least a full minute to stop laughing.

“Relax, Dad,” she finally says. “You’re not _really_ married.”

John stops his pacing, stares down at the speaker phone. “Lucy, we saw his—“

“Credentials,” Matt supplies.

When John shoots him a look, he shrugs.

“We saw his _business card_ ,” John says. “Church of the Universal Light, some bullshit like that.”

“Eternal Light,” Matt says.

“ _Crystal_ Light,” Lucy corrects. “He got it online, and it’s legit. Danny _is_ an ordained pastor.”

“Wait,” Matt says. He holds up a hand, even though Lucy can’t see him. “Are you telling me we got married in the church of the diet powdered drink mix? Are you seriously telling me that, Gennero?”

“You didn’t get married, Farrell!”

John swipes a hand over his jaw, scowls at the phone. “Lucy, you just said—“

“I said he’s ordained, but it takes a little more than that to get married. Like a license. Like legal documents. Remember, Dad, those papers you signed in the sacristy after you married Mom? Is any of this ringing a bell?”

“Lucy,” John says slowly. “Honey. You’re sure?”

Lucy gives a most undignified snort. “Please, Dad. If it wasn’t for that little loophole Danny would’ve made me a three time bigamist by now.”

When John closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, Matt snatches up the receiver. “Yeah, Lucy? I think you just gave John an aneurysm.”

“Serves him right,” Lucy says. “Tell him I hope a long lost Gruber brother shows up today.”

“Luce—“

“Oh, and by the way. Jim says you do a mean Jar-Jar Binks imitation.”

Matt’s mouth is still hanging open – he did Jar-Jar? Wow, he really _was_ wasted -- when she laughs and hangs up the phone. He sets the receiver carefully on its cradle, turns to see that John has already stalked to the kitchen cabinet and is rooting among the various bottles and jars.

“So,” Matt says into the silence. “We’re not married.”

“Nope.”

Matt lets out a shaky laugh, tries a wavering smile. “Whew, right?”

John fiddles with the aspirin bottle, dry-swallows a couple of tablets, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “Right.”

“Right,” Matt says again. “I mean, just because New York passed the law and we _can_ – which, you know, yay New York, welcome to the 21st century and all – that doesn’t mean—“

“Exactly,” John says. “Something like this is… important. You don’t do it while you’re smashed out of your fucking skull—“

“Well, unless you’re Britney Spears.”

“—or when your boyfriend just finished letting some steroid case named Biff do a shot out of his navel.”

“What?” Matt yelps. “I did not!”

John looks up. “It’s serious,” he says.

“Right.”

“Right.”

* * *

Three weeks later, the ceremony goes off without a hitch, despite John’s worries that terrorists are going to attack the banquet hall or that thieves might somehow be hiding in the ice sculptures.

Lucy’s in some flowing flimsy thing and all eyes are on the bride when John escorts her down the aisle… except Matt’s. Turns out John cleans up real nice. And when John pretends that he’s not going to hand Lucy over to Jim at the altar, Lucy laughs and punches his arm, which helps to reassure Matt that some lace-and-chiffon-covered pod person didn’t take over Lucy’s body while she slept.

“Wow. Gennero,” Matt says later, when Lucy and her new husband are making the rounds at the reception. He runs his gaze appraisingly over her dress. “Not at all what I was picturing. I had you pegged for something out of _Xena Warrior Princess_ , but with… lace. But geez, you look like a girl.”

“It’s McAllister now, Farrell,” Lucy says. She reaches up to tug on his hair. “And so do you.”

“Hah, yeah,” Matt says. “I’d cut it, but… more for John to grab onto, right?”

“Ewww. I do not need that mental image on my wedding ni---. Oh great. There it is. Thanks for that.

“You two playing nice?” John says when he comes up behind them.

“Your boyfriend’s trying to make sure I never get laid again.”

“I’m supposed to think that’s a bad thing, right?”

“John, I’m married now,” Lucy says. “Deal.”

“On this night of all nights, Lucy, I’m Dad.” He leans in to kiss her cheek, squeezes Jim on the shoulder before placing his hand on the small of Matt’s back and leading him through the milling clusters of people out to the terrace. “Figured you might be getting a little antsy,” he says when they make it to the railing.

“Thanks,” Matt says. Crowds never bothered him before the fourth, but these days he gets the cold sweats and starts breathing heavy if he’s stuck in a big group for too long, or if he can’t easily get to an exit. The first time he bolted from the subway five stops early because he was sure the guy with the groceries had a gun buried beneath his stick of french bread, he thought John would laugh. But John gets it. It’s the same reason why they always take the stairs. Elevators are not John’s friends.

John looks around warily, then pulls a couple of cans of Bud out of his pocket. “Here,” he says as he hands one over.

Matt laughs. “Where’d you get these?”

“Snuck out to the car,” John says as he opens it and takes a swig, watches as Matt does the same. He gestures to the tab. “You don’t have to save that one, though.”

Matt blinks. “Wh—what?”

“The other one. From our _marriage_ ,” John says. “It’s in that case next to your computer where you keep all those doodads.”

Matt can feel himself blushing. Okay, so he kept the damn beer tab. And maybe that means something that… he’s not going to think about right now. Instead, he focuses on John and his apparent spying habit. “You’ve been snooping through my shit?”

John shrugs, sets his beer down on one of the tables and points at his chest with one finger. “Detective,” he says.

“That’s my _private_ —“

“Anyway,” John cuts in, “I thought maybe you’d like this one instead.”

When he reaches into his other pocket, Matt’s eyes go wide. And when he actually pulls out a small black velvet box, he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t have left his inhaler at home. They’re a pair of simple gold bands, nothing fancy, and when he sets his beer down to lift the smaller of the two from the box, it glints in the moonlight. He twirls it in his fingers, looks up at John through his bangs.

“It still doesn’t mean we’re married,” Matt says.

“No, it doesn’t,” John says. He leans on the railing, looks out over the water. “A license only costs thirty-five dollars,” John says.

“You… checked?”

John shrugs again, turns back to face him.

Matt has seen John face down terrorists and thieves, thugs and murderers, but nothing prepares him for the look of shocked, raw fear on John’s face. Matt’s only seen that look once before -- on the day that he physically stopped Matt from looking through apartment listings, grabbing the newspaper out of his hands and rambling about sticking around and how he can’t make lasagna for one and how things are just better now, until Matt stepped up and kissed him and everything changed.

“If you don’t want to—“ John starts.

“No!” Matt says quickly. “I do!”

“You do?”

“I totally do,” Matt says. He tugs the ring onto his finger, waits for John to do the same. And when John kisses him, there on a moonlit terrace under the stars with the strings from the orchestra drifting in through the wide patio doors, he thinks he’s living every fucking cliché known to mankind. And strangely, he finds he’s actually okay with that.

“C’mon, kid,” John says when they part. “We better get back before Lucy sends out a search party.”

Matt smiles and glances down at his ring, looks up to find that John is already striding back into the hall. “Wait,” he calls. “This does mean a trip to the Caymans, right? John? Right?”

When John shoots him the finger, Matt laughs. He’ll actually settle for Niagara Falls. But John doesn’t have to know that.


End file.
